Chapter 3: Flames of the Festival
Arjun Kade woke to the bitter scent of ash clinging to the air, the charred remains of his rickshaw cart a smoldering heap outside their shack's mud-smeared walls. The night's attack by Raju's thugs had left the canopy in tatters, the wood blackened, and the metal frame twisted beyond repair. Meera's cough rattled through the dawn, her frail figure shivering beneath a threadbare blanket in the corner. He cursed under his breath, dragging himself up from the thin mat, his body aching from the VedaCorp chase. The tin box, his fragile lifeline, held a mere fourteen hundred rupees after yesterday's losses—two hundred to Chotu Bhai's extortionate "protection" fee, five hundred for rent due in two days, and two hundred for Meera's medicine per dose. The numbers swirled in his mind like a cruel taunt, a fortress of cash crumbling under the slum's relentless demands.
He rubbed his gritty eyes, the weight of defeat pressing on his chest. The Worli heist had netted three Yantras, a fleeting hope of six thousand rupees, but Chotu's knife and Raju's Molotov had erased it all. Vikram stumbled out of his borrowed mat, his neon-green shirt sleeves rolled up, yawning with theatrical flair. "Bhai, you look like a goat trampled you. Got any rupees left for chai? I'm starving!" Arjun managed a weak chuckle despite the pain. "Get up, yaar. We need to rebuild the cart. Uncle Ramesh might have a spare."
They trudged to Uncle Ramesh's chai stall, the old man snoring in his rickety chair, his snores blending with the street's early buzz. Arjun shook him gently. "Uncle, a spare cart, please." Ramesh blinked awake, his toothless grin spreading. "You boys are trouble, but I've got an old thing—fifty rupees." Arjun handed over the cash, his fingers lingering on the crumpled notes. It was their inventory now, a shaky foundation. Vikram whooped, clapping Arjun's back. "Let's make it fly, bhai!" Arjun forced a smile, but the debt—medicine, rent, Chotu's next demand—loomed like a storm cloud. Rebuilding meant borrowing more, a gamble he couldn't afford to lose.
The streets came alive as they wheeled the new cart to Churchgate, its wood creaking under the weight of their hopes. Arjun set it up near the station entrance, the sign "Arjun's Bites" hastily repaired with duct tape. Vikram juggled eggplants to draw a crowd, earning laughs from passersby and a few curious glances at the cart. The first hour brought forty rupees—two vada pavs and a bhajiya—but Raju's red cart rolled into view, his scowl darker than the soot on Arjun's hands. Raju's goons spilled water on the ground, smirking as they undercut Arjun's prices to five rupees a piece. Arjun gritted his teeth, dropping to eight rupees, offering free samples to win back customers. The margins shrank to a ten-rupee loss per item, but by afternoon, he'd scraped together sixty rupees, minus forty for fuel.
Trouble struck again. Raju's goons tipped the cart, spilling batter across the pavement. Arjun lunged, shoving one back, but a fist slammed into his ribs, cracking pain shooting through him. Vikram tackled another, shouting, "Not the cart, yaar!" The crowd dispersed, and a traffic cop's whistle pierced the chaos. "Hundred rupees fine, or jail," the cop barked, his palm outstretched. Arjun handed over the day's earnings, blood trickling from a split lip, his rage boiling beneath the surface. Raju laughed, retreating with his intact cart, his cronies trailing like hyenas. Vikram salvaged what he could, muttering, "We're cursed, bhai." Arjun snapped the cart back into place, forcing a laugh through the pain. "First war wound, part two. We'll beat this scum."
Priya arrived that night, her leather jacket glinting under the streetlight, her sharp eyes narrowing at his bruised face. "Raju again?" she asked, handing him an ice pack. Arjun smirked, wincing as he pressed it to his lip. "It's the charm, part two." Her concern softened her usual smirk, a warmth that lingered in his chest. "Got a lead," she said, pulling out her laptop. "Street festival in Bandra tomorrow—big crowds. VedaCorp's got a relic stall, ten thousand worth. Stealth job again." Arjun's eyes lit up. Ten thousand could cover medicine, rent, and Chotu's fee with room to spare. "How do we get it?" he asked, leaning closer. Her fingers brushed his as she handed him a map, a jolt he brushed aside. "I'll hack their booth. Vikram distracts, you grab. Split seventy-thirty, my favor," she added with a wink.
The plan took shape over chai at Uncle Ramesh's stall, the old man eyeing them warily. "You boys are mad, but gutsy," he said, pouring another cup. The festival was a chance—ten thousand meant survival and growth. Arjun practiced his pitch in his mind, imagining a stall empire, Meera healthy, Priya's respect. The cart's creak was his rhythm, the rupees his beat. He would fight for every one.
Dawn found them preparing the cart, Arjun borrowing fifty rupees from a neighbor for ingredients—flour, oil, spices. Vikram loaded bhajiyas while Priya checked her laptop, her fingers flying over the keys. The Bandra festival was a chaotic bloom of colors and crowds, stalls hawking food and trinkets under strung lights. Arjun parked near the VedaCorp booth, its neon logo glowing ominously. Vikram danced with a puppet he'd scavenged, drawing laughs and a small crowd. Priya hacked the security cameras, whispering, "Down in three… two… one." Arjun slipped inside, heart pounding.
The booth held a case of Yantras and beads, their surfaces glinting under dim lights. He stuffed his pockets with five pieces, estimating six thousand at black-market rates. Footsteps echoed—VedaCorp agents stormed in, led by the scarred woman. "Thief!" she shouted, raising a stun baton. Arjun bolted, Vikram tripping a guard with a theatrical fall, Priya's hack faltering under pressure. A baton grazed his arm, pain searing through him, but he cleared the fence, the bag heavy. Priya's voice crackled through a borrowed headset. "Exit right—go!"
They escaped into the alley, breathless, the bag clinking with three Yantras—nine thousand potential. Back in Dharavi, they collapsed by the cart's ruins, Vikram grinning. "We did it, bhai!" Priya counted the haul. "Three pieces, two thousand each—six thousand total. Split four-two-two." Arjun took two thousand, Priya two, Vikram one. He sent half to Meera's medicine, leaving him fifteen hundred. Chotu Bhai appeared, knife gleaming. "Two hundred now." Arjun paid, the tin box dipping to thirteen hundred.
Then night fell. Raju's cart rolled past, a thug throwing a brick that shattered the cart's canopy. Arjun dived, Vikram shouted, Priya grabbed a bucket, but the damage was swift—cart useless again. Raju's laughter faded into the darkness. Arjun stared, fists clenched, the fifteen hundred rupees a cruel mockery. Priya squeezed his shoulder. "We'll rebuild." Vikram nodded. "Tougher than this scum."
As he turned, a VedaCorp van screeched up, doors slamming open. The scarred woman stepped out, her voice cold. "The relics, boy. Or your slum burns." Arjun froze, Vikram gasped, Priya gripped her laptop. The threat loomed larger than the flames.